


Tag, You're It

by Nekositting



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1940s, Both were in Wool's Orphanage, Creepy! Tom, Drabble, F/M, Hermione is 9, I don't know how to describe it, I was inspired by music, More like unhealthy interest, Not that he isn't canonically creepy anyway, Nothing here is even remotely close to canon, One Shot, One-Sided Attraction, Some violence but nothing explicit, Tom is 10, i don't know what I am doing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-22
Updated: 2016-04-22
Packaged: 2018-06-03 17:35:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6619918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nekositting/pseuds/Nekositting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She wasn’t sure what had compelled her to agree to this game. She knew she shouldn’t have agreed at all, but when Riddle approached her with the most earnest look on his face, she just couldn’t say no. He never asked anyone to play."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tag, You're It

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing.
> 
> I would like to say right now that this is a one-shot, drabble that I am not sure I will be exploring further. This was completely inspired by the song "Tag, you're it" by Melanie Martinez. I heard it on my drive to work, and I just could not get this idea out of my head. I have other one-shots I am working on posting (I am not willing to write a multi-chapter fic, I just don't have the attention span, sadly). So I hope you all aren't too cross with me and will enjoy these snippets all the same -smiles sheepishly-
> 
> If you hadn't guessed already, I am fond of scary things, and writing creepy things. If that is what you're interested in, then you've come to the right place!

She was running as fast as her tiny legs could take her, her breath coming fast and loud despite the blood rushing through her ears. She couldn’t hear him at all—couldn’t with each crunch of her feet on the dry leaves of the forest. But she knew he was there, lurking in the dark.

She wasn’t sure what had compelled her to agree to this game. She knew she shouldn’t have agreed at all, but when Riddle approached her with the most earnest look on his face, she just couldn’t say no. He _never_ asked anyone to play—not that many of the other boys and girls wanted to play with him had he even asked.

When she had first moved to Wool’s Orphanage, the other children were always sure to steer as far away from the dark-haired boy as they could manage. It didn’t matter where they were—the kitchens, the sitting rooms, the bedrooms, the backyard—he was always apart from the larger group, almost as if they were frightened by something. Like there was something dark and terrible lurking behind the angelic features and frail body. She didn’t understand why her new friends would not allow her to approach him, or why they told her over and over again to never be alone with him.

She would admit that she had never known malice—that people could intend to actually do harm to her. Her parents, when they had been alive, were kind and loving. Despite the weird things she did, they had always been understanding and kind. They would comfort her after being bullied by the boys and girls in her school for being smart, or for making weird things happen whenever they angered her. She missed them. She wasn’t miserable at the orphanage, but it _wasn’t_ home. Mrs. Cole liked her, and so did the other children, unlike the ones from school, but it didn’t ease the ache she felt deep for her parents’ passing.

She still didn’t understand that they would never come back, that her time at the orphanage would be a permanent one unless she was adopted. But she was strong—she wouldn’t cry. Her mum and dad never liked it when she cried, and she would honor them by stifling the tears that wanted to fall when nights were lonely. She could admit, that she didn’t want to be adopted—no one could ever replace her parents, and whenever new faces were seen coming in to see Mrs.  Cole, she made sure to hide away. Something that, thankfully, no one else has been able to notice.

So when the loner, Tom Riddle, actually approached her on the first field trip to the park, she was surprised. Her friends were off playing by the beach, leaving her alone to stare off into the sea from the grassy part of the park—so she supposed that was an opportunity as good as any. She had never spoken to him before, so when he opened his mouth and pretty words came out—fancy words that she remembered her own parents would use, she was so eager. He had to be like her—to love to read and to learn; it didn’t matter that it wasn’t logical at all to assume that. But he _sounded just like them._ It didn’t matter that everyone else was scared of him—he had never done anything to her, so why should she? She firmly believed in the goodness of others, and always tried to give second chances, even when some didn’t always deserve it.

So when he opened his mouth and said “Would you like to play a game? I promise it’ll be quite fun. I can show you the perfect spot for it,” she didn’t think too hard about the implications of his words at all. Her head had nodded in zest before he could even quite finish the sentence. She would give him the benefit of the doubt, she didn’t really know him and he seemed so sincere with his question that she just _had_ to.

So that was how she found herself wandering into the darker, and less explored part of the park with the boy—where the leaves accumulated into small mountains, and the sun was difficult to find. It was dark—darker than she had first guessed, but she pushed on despite the unease that seized her. She was scared, but she wasn’t going to show that to her new friend—not when he seemed so perfectly at ease leading her through the confusing maze of trees. His eyes were glittering with something she had never seen before—almost like someone took a light and was shining it directly into the most reflective pieces of fine jewelry.

She could admit that she liked the look—it seemed perfectly natural in his usually reserved face. None of the boys and girls ever had that twinkle in their eyes, not even the adults. It was fascinating, and completely disarming in spite of how much darker it seemed to grow in the park the deeper they went. It wasn’t until they reached a clearing up ahead, the trees giving way to allow some of the overcast sky to peek through, that the boy stopped. His back was facing her, and she twisted her fingers nervously on the hem of her clean, but worn skirt, when he didn’t say anything.

She was still a bit nervous about having come so far away from the other children and Mrs. Cole, especially through the creepy parts of the park, but she stood firm. When he turned to face her though—the glimmer in his eyes was still present, but his lips were twisted into a wide smile that did not fit on his face at all. It was all teeth—sharp and jagged at the edges that made her think easily of the monsters in the stories she had read with her mum. It made the shine in the dark depths of his eyes seem endless, and malignant. The nervousness she felt morphed into outright fear when he stepped towards her. It was unlike the elegant, slow trod that he had kept when leading her through the trees. This step was fluid, like a cat stalking prey that had so easily caught its eye.

He resembled more of a snake ready to trap its quarry, and she stumbled when she took an automatic step back, unable to her look away,  when he stepped closer to her. It was jarring and completely unexpected how the eagerness and the excitement she had felt earlier could be so easily shattered by one look—she never knew malice, but one could easily sense that something was _wrong_.

And she continued to scramble back as he continued to move toward her—almost tripping on the uneven ground below her when she refused to look away from his eyes. They trapped her own, holding them captive despite how desperately she wanted to flee. If her mum and dad were here, she would never had had to see what the look of evil was.  
  
“You’re going to try and run from me,” he suddenly announced, his voice light and airy as he stopped approaching her; the tone contradicting the gleam in his eyes—the glint evil and troublesome, she now realized. “Think of it like a game of tag, except if I catch you-,” he paused there, almost as though for dramatic effect, the darkness in his eyes blackening with dark intent.  
  
She waited, but he never finished the sentence, leaving her to imagine just what it was that would happen.

His head tilted to one side to assess her as she struggled to form some sort of answer to the unspoken threat. She didn’t want to play this game—it screamed danger. She was trembling with barely hidden fear, her hair seeming to frizz wildly with the strange energy that would sizzle around her whenever she felt in danger. She was so scared, and it was obvious in the way her knees refused to stop shaking. But if she ran without refusing, without even a protest, would he take that as consent? Would he think that a yes, and chase after her until her tiny legs could not move anymore?

She squared her shoulders with those concerns buzzing through her mind, her chin lifting, adopting the posture she always took when she was acting bossy, or even authoritative, with the other children.  
  
“No,” she was happy at how acerbically she said the word, smiling with pride when the boy’s smile wavered momentarily—as if he had never in his life heard the word spoken to him before.

He didn’t move, but she was still tense with her desire to flee in the event that he suddenly attacked her. She should have listened to her friends from the beginning, and not given the quiet boy a chance. He was clearly dangerous, even if he seemed like he couldn't do anything. He looked frail, delicate too, but the way he stood and how he appraised her made her skin crawl. It wasn’t a look even her old bullies had given her. He looked at her as if she were something to _eat_.

It was when the smile returned, a small laugh escaping his lips, that her stance started to waver. She bit her lip nervously when he showed no sign of stopping, the laugh a seemingly innocent gesture for some, but definitely not to Hermione. Not when his eyes were swirling with something dark— _feral,_ she interjected quickly in her mind.  
  
“What makes you think you have a choice, _Hermione_?” he murmured to her, amusement thick in that soft voice.  
  
“Run.”  
  
Hermione couldn’t help the scream that bubbled up her throat, suddenly scrambling back, before she finally turned her back on him when he took a step toward her.

This was how Hermione had ended up running through the labyrinth-like forest—hoping to escape and somehow find the loving arms of her mum and dad. She knew it was a stupid thought, but she still hoped that she would find them at the end of the forest—that they’d be waiting to scoop her up and take her away from the lonely nights in the orphanage and the scary boy, Tom Riddle.

So she ran, her breaths coming short and her legs burning with her desire to rest. But she was unwilling to do so. She wanted nothing more than to lay down, to rest for just a second, but she couldn’t. Her mind kept flashing to his eyes before he chased her—to glittering black diamonds that once looked so pretty, but now were hideous to her.

And that image would not let her rest.

Her thoughts didn’t stop her when she rushed into a thorny bush, cutting her knees and arms with the edges. It stung, brought tears to her eyes, but she refused to stop regardless of how badly her muscles ached and those cuts burned.  
  
She heard a soft sound directly behind her, but she refused to look back, knowing that it that would be a mistake. Because if she looked back, she knew she might trip. It was an easy assessment to make, a reasoned thought. That made sense in her head. To look back would mean she'd get caught, that she would _see_ just how close he was.  
  
Hermione didn’t want to know, so, she didn’t look.

“ _I love it when I hear you breathing._ ”  
  
Hermione's heart stopped dead when she heard the phrase. His voice sounded much too close—almost a hair’s length away.

She screamed, not caring in the least that he could hear her when she forced herself to move faster despite the pain and the burn of her short legs. She could hear his footsteps now, over the sound of her blood rushing to her ears and the panting of her breath.  
  
_How could he be so fast? Even if he had moved immediately after me in the clearing, how was it that he caught up to me so easily?_ She cried in her head as the footsteps grew louder and louder, despite her efforts to escape.

She hated this game. She hated _him_. Why did he have to pick on her of all people? What had she ever done to him?

She cried out suddenly when her hair was suddenly yanked back. Some of the hair tore from her scalp from the brutal tug, and she couldn't help the tears that suddenly burned at the corner of her eyes from the agony. But still, she did not stop. She kept moving, tried to rip herself from his grip despite the hair pulling at her scalp.  
  
But his grip was firm and unyielding. His fingers dug deeper into her hair, clutching at the hairs right at the scalp. It  _hurt_ , but she bucked until, Tom seemingly tiring of her struggling, whirled her around and thrust her to the ground by her tangled hair. He pulled, and she screamed again, her hands clamping on his wrists to yank his fingers out, but it was useless. It was like trying to pry a door from its hinges. She clawed at the hand—her legs scrambling to get up from where she had fallen on the unforgiving earth. Still, his grip was relentless. Tom Riddle was somehow immune to pain. It didn't matter how much she clawed and scratched at him, that it should  _hurt._

What was _he?_

His fingers tightened on her scalp, and an acute pain rocked her. She yelped, unable to curb the sound. Her head swiveled in his direction when he tugged until she was forced to look up at him. She didn't want to see. To know just what his face looked like. He didn't give her a choice, however. Why should he? He hadn't been asking when he forced her to run through the forest.

A brief moment passed before she finally looked, unable to stand the silence any longer and the choking feeling in her lungs.

Tom looked completely unaffected—as if he had not just spent those last few minutes—or were they hours?—chasing her through the park. The only sign, perhaps, of what he had been up, the slight flush on his cheeks and the excited gleam in his eyes. It was the most human she'd ever seen him. Less of a doll than he appeared. More a boy than the soulless freak the children at the Orphanage described him as.

This terrified her. More unsettling than if he looked monstrous. He looked... _normal._ So normal that no one, not even her, could discern that there was a monster hiding behind such a pretty face.

And then, he smiled, the darkness in the depths of his eyes smoldering with barely repressed glee. She flinched at the look, shaken to her core, when he then crouched in front of her with his hand still wound tightly in her hair.

“ _Tag, you’re it_.”


End file.
